Alamayou brought her closer to the hearth when the last one left. He draped a blanket over her legs and turned her so she could have a better glimpse of the paintings. Princess Louise and Rabbi Ariel sat together against the far wall, watching.
Kneeling before her, Alamayou asked her if she’d like to hear a story. “Perhaps I can tell you about my life after London.”
She smiled, nodded, patted his scarred hand.
He told her about his unlikely years in Paris, of painting and tending to the sick, and of a years-long friendship with a curmudgeonly old Jew who had a prayer for her. The queen listened, gazing away. The sight of the carte de visite of him brought the last words he ever heard from her.
“The years,” she said in a voice that shivered and rasped. “Where do they go?”
Wherever it is that the ancient light goes, he thought, I believe we’ll find all our years there.
It would be dark soon. By then he knew they would have spoken the names of the departed ones. Leopold, Albert, Philip. They will be quiet after, because there are no words for some things. Then tomorrow will come and they will see what comes with it, and what departs.
And should anyone pass this room and peer inside, drawn by the hearth light under the closed door, they’ll see us by the fire, sharing a night language we’ve come to know well. Speaking of home.
Acknowledgments
While researching Julia Margaret Cameron’s photographic work for my first novel, The Luminist, I came across the melancholy image of a young black man she took in July 1868. I knew nothing about him then, but his haunted expression remained with me. He wore the colonial’s notion of African garb and was made to cradle a small white doll. He sat regally, yet everything about him spoke of isolation and a palpable longing. I set his photograph aside in order to finish that novel, but I knew I’d return to him eventually. I couldn’t look away from him.
What I subsequently learned of Alamayou’s life formed the backdrop of The Night Language. He was the only son of the Abyssinian emperor, Tewedros. Orphaned by England’s invasion of his country, Alamayou was taken back and made a ward of Queen Victoria. He didn’t speak the language. He’d never set foot in another land, let alone one that had decimated his home and his life. He was only a child. He died at seventeen, of pleurisy.
I found various meanings attributed to his name. One was “I have seen the world.”
It turned out that the image I’d discovered had been created shortly after his arrival in England. Everything he’d come through—war, seizure, a perilous sea voyage, the very first moments of a new life built around his otherness—filled his eyes. So too did a fierce desire for a future that, in his short time, he was never allowed to have. He died in a strange land and never knew real friendship, or adulthood, or love.
I’ve taken great liberties with the known facts of Alamayou’s life and the lives of those historical figures who populated his world. It’s customary to offer apologies for that sort of thing, but I wrote The Night Language to give Alamayou another story, and his story another ending. I hope I succeeded.
I’m grateful to Rare Bird, Tyson Cornell, Julia Callahan, Hailie Johnson, Alice Elmer, and all the kind folks who read about the growing love between two young black men in Queen Victoria’s court and said yes, this novel might come to mean something to someone. Thank you for the home and the chance.
To my extraordinary agents Melissa Chinchillo and Christy Fletcher: two novels into this eclectic literary career of mine, and every day you believe in what I write and why I write it. You patiently waited while I found this story draft by draft. You’ve fought for a place for me, and I’m so lucky to know you as agents and friends.
I deeply appreciate early draft readers Shilpa Agarwal, Kate Sage, and Caitlin Myer. Your generosity and insights were invaluable and gracious.
I’m so proud to belong to the Los Angeles literary community, which has been a wellspring of friendship, support, inspiration, and awe. I love our tribe.
To my mentor and friend Susan Taylor Chehak, who continues to be an inspiration to me as a writer: I’m forever grateful.
Of the many sources of information I came across while researching this novel, I must single out and profusely thank the Getty Archives and the Victoria & Albert Museum in London. Philip Marsden’s meticulously researched biography of Tewedros evoked the emperor’s Abyssinia in loving detail, while Tsehai Publishers’ reprint of the diary of a Victorian journalist who accompanied the British on their invasion of Abyssinia in 1868 painted its downfall from the invaders’ perspective. Both enriched my research tremendously.
To my daughters Ariel and Kavanna, it’s not just your names that show up in this novel. The joy, tenacity, fearlessness, and empathy you bring to your world and mine is on every page. I love you and am so proud to know you.
My father Jerrold didn’t live to see me published. I hope he’s proud. I can say now, I am like him in all the best ways.
Finally, this book is dedicated to my wife, Dr. Nina Savelle-Rocklin. Writers are frequently told to write what they know. I know about love because of you. Always and forever.
The Night Language Page 29